


something in my blood denies the memory

by Steve



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Families of Choice, Gen, Past Abuse, emotional whumping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: Her friends are in jeopardy. Beauregard makes concessions.





	something in my blood denies the memory

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Suzanne Vega's "Blood Makes Noise." 
> 
> This piece was written for a Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt.

Beau learned early on that family was all about respect. Respecting tradition, respecting her elders, respecting the Empire. Respecting blood and rules and the order of things.

Another thing Beau learned early was that she was ill-suited for family.

It’s not something she’s thought about in a long, long while, not since she ran away from the Cobalt Soul. It’s hard now _not_ to think about the sludge that is blood connection, though, when here she stands, back in her father’s study like she’s thirteen years old and was caught misbehaving again, staring at the floor-to-ceiling walnut bookcases behind her father’s desk. Better than looking into her own eyes copied onto his hard face, at least.

“Let me summarize this, then,” her father drawls. His fingers tap idly against the surface of his desk, and the noise makes Beau’s shoulders stiffen. “You need money.”

“To save my friends,” she snaps, before she can stop herself, before she can take a deep breath like Dairon taught and re-establish a poker face. His presence alone undoes years of training. “To save my fuckin’ friends, yeah, I need money, okay?”  _That and an army of this shit town’s best mercs._

Her father’s face doesn’t change, but there’s something dangerous glinting in his eyes when she forces herself to look at him. She can always tell.

“You must truly care about these people,” he says softly.

She thinks of Nott’s jack-o’-lantern grin. Caleb’s fond eye rolls. Caduceus’s hand on her shoulder, warm and certain. She grits her teeth, clenching her fists until she draws blood from her palm. Hot and sticky, crusting under her fingernails.

“Just tell me what you want, old man. Or is it too much to ask that you just give your own daughter a damn loan?”

He stands up in a flash, one sudden movement, and Beau can’t help it. She flinches, chokes on the breath stuck in her throat. Even though the desk is still between them, a flimsy buffer. She hates herself for it.  _Fuckin’ coward. Goddamn child._

He doesn’t step around the desk, doesn’t come closer, like she’s ready for. He just sighs. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Fine,” she says, and yeah, she’s trembling now despite all efforts, her whole self shaking with anger or fear or some fucked up combination of the two, like she really is a kid all over again. “Whatever you say,  _sir._ Can I have the gold or not?”

“That’s always been your problem,” he muses. “You never learned respect. I’d hoped those monks would instill some, but you’ve proven yourself to be stubborn and insolent as ever.”

_Respect._ There’s that word again.

Something inside her breaks open.

“What the fuck do you want me to  _do_?” she bursts. “Do you want me to beg for it? Would that make you happy?”

He just stares down at her, eyes cold. Fingers tapping on the surface of his desk.

Beau’s knees slam to the hard wooden floor, her back ramrod straight. She doesn’t break eye contact with her father, doesn’t gasp in pain even as her kneecaps ache in complaint, her arms hanging limp at her sides.  _Respect._  She holds his gaze for a beat longer, and then bows her head, hands still quivering but her voice steady, hoarse.

“Please,” she says. “Please, Dad. I’ll owe you. Just—do this for me, please.”

A long silence. Beau stays kneeling, trembling, a skeleton of desperation and submission. Everything is too sharp, too slow; the pattern of her father’s floor far too familiar.

“You must really care about them,” he says again, eventually. A last sigh. “You know I don’t take debt lightly, Beauregard. The interest I collect will be heavy, and I don’t mean in gold.” His voice goes cold, hard. “I expect you to do right by this family, for once in your life.”

Beau closes her eyes, and thinks about Yasha’s kind, careful hands, the steady rhythm of her breathing; Fjord’s lazy wink, his arm looped around her shoulders; Jester’s snorting laughter and sharp teeth, the way she hugs with her whole body. The thing is, Beau learned early that she was ill-suited for family. But this one—oh, gods, she would die for this one.

“Anything,” she whispers, lifting her chin. “I’ll do anything.”

 


End file.
